


coming to that flashing light; ATEEZ

by arrowthroughtheheart



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Angst with a Happy Ending, But technically, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hallucinations, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Horror, I promise, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Jeong Yunho/Song Mingi, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamorous Character, Psychological Horror, Song Mingi-centric, Survivor Guilt, Tags May Change, Thriller, Unhealthy Relationships, Well - Freeform, now that just spoils everything huh, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28650942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrowthroughtheheart/pseuds/arrowthroughtheheart
Summary: “Well I fucking see him everywhere.”Yeosang states, as if he’s accentuating this message somewhere. Mingi dares not to look behind his shoulder, to where Yeosang is looking at, in fear of actually seeing him despite never having the same experience Yeosang does anywhere else but in class. “All fucking bloody and messed up, too. Yet I could never get it past myself to fucking stop looking. I couldn’t stop- feeling fucking bad.”
Relationships: Choi Jongho/Everyone, Choi San & Song Mingi, Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, Choi San/Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang, Choi San/Kang Yeosang, Jeong Yunho/Song Mingi, Jung Wooyoung & Song Mingi, Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang, Kang Yeosang & Song Mingi, Park Seonghwa & Song Mingi, Song Mingi & Everyone, Song Mingi & Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	coming to that flashing light; ATEEZ

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't been on for a few months and here i am w my first 2021 fic - a thriller?????? questionable, really.

The day was truly a gloomy one.

If the young man seated on his crossed legs could choose, or was given any ability to turn back time, or was given a way out of this day he seems to hate so much, he would. Anything but this entire loop of. . . what was he feeling before this?. 

The window was stained with droplets of clear, yet absolutely poisoned, water. Maybe poisoned was not a good choice of word. Maybe, infected. Polluted? 

There was a faint line of light peeking in from the cracks of heavy rain outside the young man's window, from the not-so-discreet existence of a street light planted a few feet away from the apartment's window. This young man is half-convinced the raindrops reflect dark black shadow spots on himself, yet as convenient as being able to look at himself  _ might  _ be, the young man is kind of glad he isn't given the ability to. As he is also glad about a lot of things he can not do, instead of being grateful over things he was actually blessed with.

Mingi thinks it is almost entirely impossible for him to be thankful of his own abilities, knowing it is unlikely that he's the best at  _ something.  _ If not the best, why bother jumping in?

Trying something new is a concept Song Mingi has never been afraid of, but these days-- these days. . .

Mingi stops a big sigh from escaping his trembling lips, noticing in a passing moment how the tips of his fingers are freezing. It is cold, and it's dark, and he's been spending half a day in front of his window. He feels like doing something productive, and though that  _ is  _ something he's supposed to be doing, the thought isn't really that appealing to him. So is food. And entertainment. Songs, those creative flowing notes people create with the intention of  _ expressing,  _ or even he himself created--feels bland now. Like the aforementioned food that passes by his throat and tongue like a disinterested tourist in a foreign airport, their feet shifting here and there as fast as they could to  _ leave.  _

How, how, how?

How does one enjoy life anymore?

Hongjoong told him a few days- maybe weeks, months? He told Mingi some time ago that it could be him. . . burning out? It happens, Hongjoong had said, to the best of us. If someone pushes themselves too hard and too much, too often, without paying attention to the most important things the body needs--it'll hit. Mingi thinks it's unfair, but out of respect for the man who took time out of his  _ even busier  _ schedule to check up on how Mingi was faring, he stayed silent about how noisily his brain proceeded to disagree with every single word Hongjoong was saying. Mingi hates his head so much for it. 

Mingi was taught respect ever since he came out of his mother's womb, technically, since they've always been those types of parents. His, he meant. The type of parents who mentally slap you if you say something wrong at the wrong time, to the wrong people. It was never  _ too  _ mean, at least, Mingi thought. And his younger self wondered a lot why his parents were so blunt on their dislike towards how he was. But then he grew into it, into the mentality. He realized how they were right sometimes, not  _ most  _ of the time, but some. 

He wondered briefly why his brain was so quick on disagreeing with Hongjoong that one day, despite the wonderful amount of respect he has for that man. An amount of respect even his parents couldn't drill into his brain. No. Hongjoong deserved Mingi's respect, and he had earned his way there. Did Mingi completely let his life-principles out the window, and that's why he's. . . doing whatever this is, he's doing right now? 

Even  _ more  _ time passes, and now the rain is softer.

Half-hearted, but relentless. Much like himself.

Mingi lets his eyes fly over to his phone on top of his unmade bed, under a few tangled sheets and a bundle of his blanket, lit up in short flashes as if someone's. . . calling him. Someone could be. Why should he care? 

He made no move to reach his phone.

Somehow, someway, with a power he didn't even realize he still has, Mingi drapes himself over the window, and he dozed off. It was quick, and he didn't even realize the tiniest shift he experienced through the night. Or was it morning? It was still dark when Mingi realized he had fallen asleep against the now icy glass tiles of his window, and upon noticing how the rain stopped and he still has yet to close his shades, Mingi was blanketed with anxiety, which pushed him enough to yank the shades over his window. He shuffled all the way to his bed after a few fat minutes, and out of the corner of his eyes realized how his notifications were drowned in familiar names. Familiar characters, those which he might recognize if he squints hard enough. He doesn’t. He left it alone.

He didn't have it in him to check. No, not then.

\---

It was, Mingi figured out the next day as he untangled himself from the monstrous layers of his never-ending heap of sheets, a text message from Wooyoung. Someone he least expected, since they no longer speak for almost. . . well, it’s not like Mingi claims to have the best value of time right now, so, maybe they haven’t spoken for years. He doesn’t feel that way though, since it felt fresh and new how--overbearing Wooyoung’s personality is. In a good way, it once was. Now he’s just too exhausted to keep up with it. 

But it’s not Wooyoung. It’s him. 

_ Jung Wooyoung:  _ Did you happen to call me yesterday?

Mingi almost flinched at the content of this very much distracting message. The fuck? The least Wooyoung could do was  _ not  _ delete his number, or something. How and why - or what - prompted him to send a message as oblivious as that? Does he not still have Mingi’s number saved?

_ Whatever,  _ Mingi thinks to himself, feeling less clogged and fuzzy if compared to last night, and a few dozen other nights before. His thumbs dragged him into a confrontation with Wooyoung’s message he never wanted to click beforehand, but since he’s already here. . .

No.

_ Sent 05.30 AM _

Yesterday?

Mingi was sure he couldn’t be drunk--or sad texting Wooyoung after all that. He was positively deprived of his own will to live last night, much less to pick up the phone call that was directed to him. Speaking of, he should be feeling stable enough to go to his classes today. Or even send a voice message to the person who called him last night, to remind them he’s still alive. It’s probably just Yeosang. No one else checks up on him these days, he’s grown far too tiring for regular visits. Mingi understands. He thinks it’s heaven to be left behind, anyways.

No, he decides.

He  _ will  _ go to his classes today, which means he won’t have enough anxiety-delay to check who called him last night. Could be Wooyoung, who thought Mingi called him instead, but it most likely would be Yeosang.

Odd.

When Mingi scrolled past his notifications his eyes didn’t catch any missed calls signs. He pockets his phone on his way to bring his breakfast up to his room, the two trinkets of eatery clanking with each other on top of his ceramic plate. It could probably be his eyes. They’re either playing tricks on him last night, or this morning. Either way, Mingi gulped his breakfast like water--if water tastes like his family’s ashes, since that’s what food tastes to him these days--and sets his mind on not opening his phone ever again. 

Yeosang could find him, Yeosang always could - if he even wants to find Mingi. Who knows, maybe his only loyal friend gained a significant other throughout this entire few phases of Mingi’s depressive hours. He wouldn’t deprive Yeosang of his own life. 

Getting into the bathroom was hard, and bathing was even harder. Not to mention how it starts lightly raining on his walk to the campus. 

Mingi wants to bail. 

Curling underneath his monstrous tangle of sheets and blankets seem so inviting right about now, as the droplets of soft rain attacks his facial skin like thousands of blades meteor-falling from the sky, cold and sizzling on his heated skin like teardrops hitting the surface of a burning furnace. It is all too much, all too much too soon, and Mingi finds himself hurling over to the lobby of his--surprisingly, he remembers--building before the rain manages to become a few thousand times angrier. 

There were hushed conversations, mostly from the campus’ staffs with each other, but Mingi can distinctly make out how their newly hired cleaning lady is being scolded for- well, he won’t stay long enough to listen. He knows she’s newly hired, however, since he’s never seen her before. It’s not like he sees anyone a lot, but the point still stands.

His phone started vibrating a few times, some right next to the other at point zero five seconds, and a few others with longer breaks in between. Mingi debates on whether or not he wants to pick it up and see, opting quietly to ignore it since he doesn’t want to psyche himself up too much before his first class even begins, but changing his choices as fast as he can when he sees a familiar face walk up to where he’s seated at the very corner of his class, which smelled distantly of fresh paints and wooden planks. It got renovated while he was gone, he assumed. 

The group chat is alive again, and Mingi finds himself intrigued with the perfect number of  _ ‘50 messages’  _ on the corner of the app, shining in red. 

_ Kang Yeosang:  _ fucj

_ Kang Yeosang:  _ has anyine fucking seen mingi

_ Park Seonghwa:  _ Why did it occur to you that we might. . .?

_ Kang Yeosang:  _ fuCK PLEASE JUST TELL ME IF YOU DO

_ Kang Yeosang:  _ he’s not at home

It was from a few minutes ago. Both Yeosang and Seonghwa might still be active right about now, if Mingi decides on answering them. Maybe. Maybe not.

It’s not good to be a hindrance to society, Mingi knows that damn well. And making Yeosang all nervous and confused is  _ definitely  _ the first few steps to becoming one. 

_ Park Seonghwa:  _ And you’re not in class because?

_ Kang Yeosang:  _ because it’s the first week of the month and I usually

08.00 AM

_ Kang Yeosang:  _ check up on him and drop him off to classes

_ Park Seonghwa:  _ Then do you not think he might be in his classes?

_ Choi San:  _ he is in his class, parental figures, calm down

Mingi lifts his head, feeling how his overgrown hair smacks himself on the face and with a wince, notices who the familiar face he saw actually belonged to. Oh yeah. He does know who this kid is. 

“Good day to you too, Song Mingi,” San greets him from his seat almost half a room away from where Mingi is seated. Weird. San used to not sound like that when Mingi was still talking to them. He means, actively, and such. It’s probably because it is different, somehow. This different and that different. Mingi can list a few reasons why he thinks San might be changing. 

Mingi doesn’t open his mouth to reply. 

Doesn’t need to.

Especially not when the class’ door swings open yet again, and another few slivers of students come in. Completely ignoring Mingi’s existence, and in return, also San’s. 

“Aren’t you going to ever answer them?” San tuts, tilting his head which was held up by his chin on the silky black backpack he puts on the table.  _ You already did,  _ Mingi mimed, jutting the bottom of his lips out before nodding at his phone screen. San gets it. It’s always so hard for everyone else, but San understood. “But I don’t really think so,” San chuckles, now lifting his entire torso up to stand. Mingi holds back an incoming flinch.

_ “They can’t see what I said, can they?” _

Mingi leans back on his chair, snapping back to reality as his chair creeks and the face of Choi San coming up to him morphed into someone he’s definitely familiar with; the girl he’s been sitting with for the past few years. She’s nudging him with a confused look, sparing a few glances behind herself to see where exactly Mingi is looking. Not noticing anyone, she returns to nudge at Mingi and gesture to the front of the class. 

He’s here, he reminds the professor after a few quiet seconds. He’s not absent. 

Mingi refuses to cast a glance to the corner of the room, where the most usually happens. Instead, he focuses on the sound of papers and pens scratching here and there in the room, knowing damn well he should be doing the same. Writing. Listening. Paying attention. 

Instead, Mingi moves to shift over to his seatmate, wincing as she looks up at him.

“This. . . this might sound a little weird, but my hands are freezing and dead right now so can you please type something into my group chat? Just a quick short thing I promise.”

Mingi finds Yeosang at the cafeteria a few gnawing hours later, and unlike the Yeosang he last met a few months ago, he looks--different. Of course the haircut made him look different, but the overall energy he’s getting from looking at Yeosang is new. Fresh, almost, but he’s going to sound like a millennial for saying how much not being addicted to looking at your phone makes you an entirely new person. Yeosang  _ isn’t  _ looking at his phone, which is a first, since he’s in a public situation and he usually presents himself as both untouchable and disinterested in a public disposition. His eyes are travelling here and there, and after meeting Mingi’s, something unravels from both his tense shoulders and his guarded eyes, and he shovels over like he found a diamond in the rough.

His right arm is clutching over a paper bag, and the corners of his mouth are quirked up into a little curl. Mingi returns the sentiment with a nod, since his mask is covering half of his face. 

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Yeosang squints as his jogs slow down to a stop, his left arm hovering over Mingi’s shoulder, debating on whether or not it’s acceptable for Mingi if he slings his arm around the latter’s shoulders. “I could say the same to you,” Mingi chuckles, breathing out a relieved sigh at how relaxed his heart palpitations are compared to the few hours beforehand where he knows  _ no one  _ but his seatmate. “I didn’t know you even wanted to cut your hair,” he continues, shaking Yeosang’s awkwardly hovering hand to cut off the weird tension, “I genuinely thought you liked it long.”

“I did,” Yeosang replies, sounding a few lengths more relieved, as well. “It’s just that at last semester’s finals when I had to sculpt a few statues I realized how much my facial aesthetics don’t really matter, especially when all my hair did was bother me and my supposed masterpieces--which I had to achieve for grades, you know, not at all for personal satisfaction--so I cut the front off. Very unevenly. And Wooyoung complained about it being weird so I told my hairdresser I wanted a mullet,” he shrugs, and Mingi laughs along with him, stopping on his tracks to examine Yeosang’s haircut from the back. 

The back of his mullet’s length reaches his armpit, almost, and Mingi is back in a loop of ‘how long has he not paid attention to Yeosang?’

“Anyways, I bet you didn’t make enough food for lunch, huh,” Yeosang shoves his paper bag onto Mingi’s front torso, wording his sentence like a question despite not delivering it how a question should sound like. Mingi looks at his friend while he stands in a dilemma of not knowing how to express gratitude even when he can’t exactly be excited to eat, at the time being. But judging from his shaking hands, Mingi  _ is  _ hungry. He’s just afraid Yeosang will be able to see. Feel bad for Mingi for not enjoying anything in life anymore. “I didn’t,” Mingi settled on answering, giving the blonde his saddest downturned eyes, “thank you.”

“Eat, even if you can’t enjoy it,” Yeosang huffs, pocketing one of his hands and reaching out to hold Mingi’s arm with the other. “Sitting outside helps. Some kids are usually playing soccer on the field around this time, maybe looking at how much they  _ suck  _ would cheer you up.”

Mingi rests his eyes on Yeosang’s unamused face for a fleeting second, confused on how another laugh is ignited from the back of his ribcage. They’re disintegrating as he laughs.

“Why don’t you show them how it’s done, sir Kang?”

“No,” Yeosang cringes, “it doesn’t feel good coming into a class all sweaty and steaming with remnants of adrenaline. I’m too old for that.”

Yeosang cleans a cement-made seat with his hand before inviting Mingi to sit under a very much rain-drop filled tree. He dries his half-soaked hand on Mingi’s coat jokingly before shoving his hand back into his gloves, cringing the entire way. Mingi watches as Yeosang’s jaw tightens and untightens over the course of a few speedy minutes, and when the blonde’s eyes re-open to catch his own, Mingi pulls his mask down. “How’s it going with that?”

“Better,” Yeosang shivers whole-bodily. “The rest of my support group would say worse, since  _ they’re  _ not getting better, but our therapist said I’m improving at a very good pace. Not too fast, not too slow. I also don’t usually relapse after overcoming a few roadblocks, so. I did that for you,” Yeosang motions to the seat under Mingi, which is now less-wet if compared to before Yeosang removed the remaining rain-water from its surface, “so I’m very much better. At least compared to last winter. Don’t you think, Gi?”

“I’m very proud of you,” Mingi huffs, nudging the side of Yeosang’s exposed tilted figure as the latter curses, almost curling in on himself. “I’m also sorry I couldn’t be there for you as much as I’d like to be. I got a little too tangled up with myself. Some-fucking-how.” 

“There’s no ‘somehow’ in hitting rock-bottom,” Yeosang scolds him in a way that could make only Mingi laugh. Yeosang’s blunt nature is so comedic to Mingi, calming, sometimes even, and naturally, Mingi is the only one who sticks around Yeosang long enough to let him care, and vice versa. Mingi doesn’t know what Yeosang sees in  _ him  _ though. Certainly not dependability.

“What I meant was,” Yeosang corrected himself, though he looks more annoyed than apologetic. Mingi wanted to chuckle yet again. “You know it’s not a ‘somehow’ process to hit the place only yourself can think of as the worst. I know you know how and why you got there, but based on what I’ve been through in therapy for almost nine months now--fuck I can actually give birth to a child--it doesn’t help if you talk about it by force. You either want to whine about it, or not. Both are okay. Both are coping mechanisms.”

Mingi leaned against Yeosang for comfort, and weirdly enough, Yeosang let him. 

It’s not as if his friend has ever been against physically comforting Mingi, despite how much of a crazed cat-hating-water image he depicts when it’s  _ anyone else  _ he’s supposed to touch. Anyone or anything. Especially unhygienic places, or things, or animals. Yeosang’s been a very strong fortress for Mingi, and somehow he’s turned even stronger, during the days where Mingi was absent. During the days where all Mingi saw was. . . well, to put it simply, the ghost of their past. 

_ Their _ .

“Do you ever stop seeing him, Sang?”

“No,” Yeosang didn’t even spare a second. “But I sure hope I will.”

Mingi freezes, and Yeosang notices his discomfort, and probably; disagreement. “To be completely frank, I’m tired of him. But it’s only been a few months, and even less than the fastest human coping-mechanism ever recorded, so I wasn’t hoping for too much. Someday, though, someday,” Yeosang sighs, playing with the tips of his loosened gloves, “I’ll stop seeing him.”

“Oh,” Mingi flinches away, seeming apologetic when Yeosang turns to look at him in retaliation to his sudden movements. “Right. Wooyoung,” he continues, and Yeosang’s frown deepened. “He texted me this morning asking me if I called him last night, which is odd. Because I thought he wouldn’t be the type to delete people’s numbers, especially those who were- I don’t know, involved- but maybe he did, since I was as traumatized as he was.”

Yeosang nods wordlessly, showing how he’s listening.

“But what was even more odd is the fact that I also received a phone call that night? Not so sure, actually, since I could be lucid dreaming, or something. Maladaptive daydreaming? Whatever they call it. But I can’t find who was calling me on my notifications this morning, and I was instead accused of terror-calling somebody,” Mingi chuckles, not feeling the slightest bit comforted by Yeosang’s change of emotions. No, that’s not right.

Yeosang shouldn’t be here to comfort him. He’s as traumatized as Mingi is, if not more. For someone who had been screaming everyday in the intensive care unit about how he wants to cut  _ both  _ his palms off from his body, Yeosang sure has gone the furthest in life when compared to all of them. So does Hongjoong, but Mingi doubts the older man actually gets better. He’s just drowning himself in paperworks, at this point. As Mingi had guessed, ironically. 

“Why do you look so distraught?” Mingi questions, not sure if the answer would be making him feel better. 

Yeosang, as Mingi’s best-friend of fifteen years and an avid hater of dwindling conversations that could be finished a lot sooner if both parties just jump straight to the point, completely refuses to miss the chance of meeting Mingi this sober ever again. 

“Don’t- don’t fucking get alarmed. It’s okay. We’ll get to it soon, but,” Yeosang holds Mingi’s palms underneath his gloved-ones. “This past nine months Wooyoung hasn’t moved on. All he ever talked about is  _ that one  _ and he frequents  _ his  _ grave every fucking week like a clingy lover--that he  _ was,  _ but I was too before he fucking died!” Yeosang states, and Mingi’s worry skyrocketed seeing how much Yeosang’s pupils were shaking. 

“Point is,” Yeosang looks away to the field after a pointedly loud laughter from the soccer player’s audience, “he’s still not over it, not a single bit, and a few weeks ago he told me he wanted to visit his lover--as he always said, every goddamn week--and I was on my way to check on  _ you  _ so I volunteered to drop him, and he said yes- even asked me if I wanted to go meet  _ San,  _ as if-'' Yeosang sighs, shaking a little more as he says each word. “As if it was the first time I was invited into their predetermined relationship, again.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mingi frowns, not knowing what else to say.

“It’s- fine. We’ll get to it. And then as I refused and went on my way to your place after dropping Wooyoung off, since he promised me he’ll get home as soon as possible, Seonghwa _ -hyung  _ called, confused, since he said ‘I should be dropping Wooyoung off today, he asked me to do so a few weeks ago,’ so and so. And I said, ‘No,  _ hyung,  _ it’s okay, I dropped him off. He said he’ll return home soon,’ and Seonghwa is like, ‘Yeosang, I don’t think you understand.’”

Mingi tilts his head, completely not understanding too, as Yeosang had been.

“Seonghwa _ -hyung  _ said he was the last person Wooyoung went to therapy with, which convinced him to stop Wooyoung’s inability from moving on before it turns into wild obsession, right? And I was thinking to myself, ‘Oh shit, how did I support this?’ and Seonghwa _ -hyung  _ told me it was fine, I was also going to therapy for my own headassery, but told me to don’t go to your house that day in case I get too jittery and affect you, too, and he’ll pick Wooyoung up, but then-” Yeosang turns around from his focus on the field. “As I got home I saw Yunho on our front door, so I asked him what the fuck he was doing there and how he’s not all the way across the world learning to be a doctor, or some shit, right?”

“Right,” Mingi affirms.

“And he told me, ‘Oh. Wooyoung didn’t tell you all?’ and at that point I was  _ furious  _ since I was shaking and cold and anxious and half-dead, and ridden by self-guilt for not only abandoning Wooyoung but abandoning my check up on you, too, but Yunho was so weirded out, since he told me, ‘Ah, but he wanted me to come here so us three can surprise the  _ hyung _ s and Jongho,’ so I asked him, ‘Wooyoung?’ and Yunho said yes, and about two to three hours after that as we’re getting comfortable--weirded out, but comfortable since I was fucking stressed and Yunho just got there so he was tired--Seonghwa _ -hyung  _ called.”

Mingi stops moving, completely seeing where this is going. This hasn’t happened only once before. Wooyoung is. . . a weird case. But when San was alive-. . . no. When Wooyoung still got both Yeosang and San by his side, he was tamed. San would be the boyfriend he’d roam around with until he’s tired, and they’d both come home to a very calm and understanding Yeosang, who isn’t really a fan of tiring himself out with nature but loves his two other counterparts the same amount. But sometimes, afraid of being the most spoiled, Wooyoung would perform his ritual runaways. And the two of them would have to find him, and they always did, save for that one time Wooyoung broke his ankle and had to be taken to a hospital by a stranger which resulted in a whole friend-group search, even Yunho, who was studying abroad. 

“He couldn’t find Wooyoung, he said,” Yeosang continues, “which was odd according to him since apparently Seonghwa _ -hyung  _ or Jongho tend to be the ones Wooyoung bothers a lot if he wants to visit the graveyard. Which meant Seonghwa _ -hyung  _ knows how long Wooyoung usually stays.”

“He hasn’t returned, has he?” Mingi flinches at his own voice, calming down remarkably as Yeosang squeezes his palms tighter. Yeosang shakes his head slowly but surely, and Mingi fights the urge to cry. Yeosang should be the one who is most destroyed right now.

Mingi doesn’t know the logistics of how his and Wooyoung’s relationship become after the death of their third significant other, and he was never too ready to ask anything related to  _ him,  _ but being left behind by someone you’re physically and intimately close with for more than a few irrelevant years must be hard on anyone. Especially with how Wooyoung is also Yeosang’s roommate. 

“I haven’t been alone, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” Yeosang sent him a coy smile, which Mingi isn’t absolutely sure came out of someone who just said. . . all that. “Yunho doesn’t have a permanent staying spot, so he’s been using the guest room we never use. Hongjoong and Seonghwa _ -hyung  _ stay over sometimes, too, when they wake up in cold sweats at night. It’s all good. You could even stay, if you want.”

“Since I’m definitely terrified of whatever the fuck that story was,” Mingi huffs, “I think I might.”

Yeosang clasps his hands together, chuckling while he whispers a little: “Sleepover!”

The smile dissipates as quickly as it came, and Mingi is alarmed yet again. Everytime Yeosang’s expressions change, ever since they were barely toddlers who don’t even understand each other yet, something bad always gets an explanation.

“Can I see what he said to you?”

“Oh,” Mingi reaches for his phone in his pocket, tapping the passwords in to open the messenger.

_ Jung Wooyoung:  _ Did you happen to call me yesterday?

No.

_ Sent today _

_ Jung Wooyoung:  _ Oh okay!

“Oh?” Mingi’s eyes widened at the notice of Wooyoung’s reply. “Oh?” Yeosang leans in to peek, and Mingi shoves the entire phone onto Yeosang’s hands. The latter looks up at Mingi to spot any type of overwhelming discomfort, which he doesn’t find, since Mingi just looks. . . perplexed. “He answers you, huh,” Yeosang assesses, and Mingi made a face. “I swear if you’re not always this calm even when your previous boyfriends and girlfriends are on the brink of breaking up with you, I might conspire that you kidnapped Wooyoung yourself to stir up drama.”

Yeosang flipped him off. 

Did you not save my number anymore, or

_ Sent 01.03 PM _

_ Jung Wooyoung:  _ I do, Mingi :( it’s just that time works different

_ Jung Wooyoung:  _ around here

“What the fuck are you typing and can you please let me see-”

“He answered,” Yeosang looks around before looking back at his friend. Mingi’s eyes are blown wide right about now, the bridge of his nose vacant of any creases his squinty eyes usually are accompanied with. “That fast?”

Yeosang nods, seemingly weirded out. It’s almost comfortable to see Yeosang this disturbed, but at the same time--Mingi was reminded of a time period he doesn’t exactly fancy remembering. “The minute I pressed send.”

Mingi’s mind cracked a joke about how ‘meeting’  _ him  _ every week made Wooyoung grow at least twelve more fingers and a foresight to the future, but the more he thinks about phrasing the joke the more he realizes how scary the concept actually is, despite it seeming otherworldly and funny at first.

“We can argue that from the time you spent on answering his text after you’ve seen it tells him enough about your thought process and after marinating on that thought enough he  _ knows  _ what question you’ll send him next if you ever get the strength to open your messengers and  _ that’s  _ how he prepared an answer pre-your question--in this case, which I sent--but even then, is Wooyoung in the right enough headspace to be that smart right now? Where even is he?”

“Am I really that readable?” Mingi questions, eyes focused on the question Yeosang typed out for him. “Even  _ you  _ knew what I would typically ask.”

“I’ve been your friend for fifteen years, Mingi,” Yeosang states, showing the prior his phone screen yet again, “Wooyoung has not.”

“No, fuck, Yeosang- I’m actually so fucking scared right fucking now- I- not all of this happening right after I saw  _ him  _ again today. In my fucking class. Missed my roll call because he was talking to me.”

“You saw Choi San?” 

Yeosang looks unamused, but Mingi knows the blonde man has been coping with rage. He’s mad at the aforementioned young man, mad because he left, mad because he didn’t stay any longer, mad because he lets himself be consumed by something Yeosang has proved to be under his control. Yeosang won over it, so why could San not? 

To say that getting better is obviously good for Yeosang is stating the obvious, but arguing whether or not it’s good for his coping mechanism is a talk they need to have in the near future. 

“As per usual,” Mingi looks down on their hands, “he was my classmate for that particular class. I couldn’t  _ not  _ see him.” 

Yeosang stays quiet, his lips pursed thin.

“He spooked me into answering your messages, too. I guess it’s kind of good that I only see him on campus. I would be too scared to function otherwise.”   
“Well I fucking see him  _ everywhere.” _

Yeosang states, as if he’s accentuating this message somewhere. Mingi dares not to look behind his shoulder, to where Yeosang is looking at, in fear of actually seeing  _ him  _ despite never having the same experience Yeosang does anywhere else but in class. “All fucking bloody and messed up, too. Yet I could never get it past myself to fucking stop looking. I couldn’t stop- feeling fucking bad.” 

Mingi squints again when Yeosang’s eyes return to look at him.

“I couldn’t stop missing him. Whatever his form comes in, my brain said, fuck it. I couldn’t live without this feeling of wanting to cry my eyes out everytime I see him. You can’t fear someone you loved so much.”

The past tense jabbed Mingi’s heart to tear it in two, and he feels his shoulders drooping ever-so-lightly. He feels rewired, rebranded. As if his prior problems were, if compared to Yeosang’s, nothingness. 

“Oh,” Yeosang huffs, snapping himself back into reality. “If you’re going to sleep over you have to brace yourself to see Yunho. Uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I know you two didn’t end it on the best terms. But. I- I could help mediate, as much as you need, but. . . not when it comes to things I can’t dabble with. Okay?” 

“O-okay,” Mingi shrugs, “not that I was worried about that. I reply to Yunho’s texts more than I reply yours, sometimes.”

“Rude,” Yeosang stands up, and Mingi catches a split second of his eyes flickering back to whoever it was behind Mingi’s shoulder. Somehow this time, Mingi turned around with an opened gash in his heart, hoping that he’d be able to see him too.

_ Jung Wooyoung:  _ i know you’ve been absent a lot, mingi

_ Jung Wooyoung:  _ but can we maybe hang out :D 

_ Jung Wooyoung:  _ i’m lonely

**Author's Note:**

> i'll post the rest tomorrow after church :)


End file.
